


Impossible Year

by matchstick_milk



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Adult Viktor, Adult Yuuri, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And they meet when they're younger, Angst, Drinking, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Long-Distance Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Non-Chronological, Non-Explicit Sex, Sex, Skype, Viktor is a year older than Yuuri, Yuri is somehow a decent mediator, young Viktor, young Yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9295292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchstick_milk/pseuds/matchstick_milk
Summary: “Kiss your wrist, and I’ll know everything’s okay.”Yuuri takes a long breath.The music begins.He does not kiss his wrist...Everything is not okay.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've had pieces of this stuck in my head for SO LONG, so i'm glad to have gotten it all out in one piece!!! whew~  
> The piece as a whole, and what yuuri skates to is Panic! at the Disco's "Impossible Year." I haven't written fic in a while, but I had a good time writing this, so I hope you enjoy reading it!  
> Thanks!

_ “Kiss your wrist, and I’ll know everything’s okay.” _

..

Yuuri manages a small smile, eyes trained on the peak of his skates, barely visible beneath his toes, scratching anticipatory white lines into the ice. Of course he’s hearing Viktor, voice younger than the both of them--so young, so long ago, and--Yuuri feels his heart squeeze a little tighter in his chest, the cavity feeling like it’s getting smaller with each beat, collapsing under an insufferable weight. 

When he’s on the ice, it’s always Viktor in his ear, whispering: “Kiss your wrist, and I’ll know everything’s okay.”

Yuuri looks up, and, without his glasses it takes a long time to focus on anything. But, he picks Viktor’s silver hair out of the crowd with practiced ease, can see him leaning on the edge of the rink’s walls. 

It’s easier to pretend Viktor isn’t watching when he can’t see where exactly his eyes are pointing, but this time, Yuuri knows Viktor is looking. He can feel the Russian’s gaze heavy on his body, watching, breath caught in his lungs as he waits. 

_ Kiss your wrist, and I’ll know everything’s okay _ .

Yuuri takes a long breath.

The music begins. 

He does not kiss his wrist. 

..

Everything is not okay.

..

Yuuri first meets Viktor on the floor of the World Junior Championship. He’s seen him before, of course, spending the past fourteen years of his life admiring the skater’s form on the posters plastered in his bedroom and in the videos he’s poured countless hours into studying. But, when he turns away from the water fountain, wiping saliva and water from his lip on his sleeve, he sees his idol for the first time, in the flesh. 

He’s tall and willowy, hair stretching down his back in a ponytail, and Yuuri chokes down the embarrassing urge to call it “pretty,” and to know what it feels like in his fingers. 

Viktor seems busy, arguing with--rather being lectured--by his stout coach, and, judging by the lines digging deeper into the man’s face, Viktor seems to be in a mess of trouble. 

Viktor’s lips pull tighter into a line and he looks away, his eyes serendipitously catching Yuuri’s, and, for a moment, Yuuri’s entire world halts. 

Celestino grabs Yuuri’s arm, to usher him elsewhere--the locker room, maybe, or the rink, or someplace else that really doesn’t matter because Yuuri is  _ suffering _ , trying to think of what to do or say in response, but… just like that, the moment has passed. 

“Yuuri.” Celestino wheels Yuuri around by his shoulders, urging him with a light nudge to carry on down the hallway. “We’ve got to reservations, so we need to get moving if we’re going to make them.”

“ _ Hai _ ,” although suddenly, he isn’t feeling very hungry. 

..

Viktor wins gold, in his very last Junior tournament. Yuuri places fourth. 

Something about him misses Viktor the next year, although he earns a silver medal in his own last Junior tournament. Maybe he’s just disappointed his idol wasn’t there to see it. 

..

The next time they meet is at the end of Yuuri’s first major slump. 

It had been easy to place in the Junior world, where all of the competition was much younger, but now, he’s skating with people leagues above where he is. And, while he knows they’ve earned their spots there, through years and years of hard work, he can feel himself slipping, further and further away. 

Even more, he can see the people around him, his age and slightly older, improving, leaving him in the dust. 

Of course, Viktor falls into that category. 

..

“Oh!”

Yuuri skids to a stop, the ice grating under his skates, the sound echoing in the empty arena. Tomorrow, the space will be filled with spectators and judges and cameras; tonight, though, it’s vacant. A place for Yuuri to stew in his anxiety without interruption. 

Though, apparently, not completely. 

Yuuri makes a small noise of surprise at the intrusion, scrambling to unhook his glasses from his shirt collar and press them up his nose. 

“Sorry!” a voice calls in English, though it’s heavy with a different accent. “I didn’t know someone else was in here!” 

“Um…!” When Yuuri’s eyes adjust to the sudden perfection of his vision, he catching the long strands of silver hair as two hands run through them, pulling them high into a bun atop the owner’s head. “V-viktor… Viktor Nikiforov?” 

It takes every ounce of courage and will for Yuuri not to skate as fast as he can in the other direction. He doesn’t take a step closer, however, frozen by the presence of the boy he’s been admiring since he first saw him on his family’s television.

“Yeah--you’re…. Oh, I can remember, hold on.” Viktor finishes lacing his skates, stepping onto the ice with a familiarity and grace unrivaled. He seems to relax that much more, the transition from concrete to ice transformative; the tension eases from his delicate shoulders, his lips pull into a content smile. He skates closer to Yuuri, skidding a wide circle around the intimidated boy, before humming, “Yuuri.” 

He skates away with a twinkling laugh, hands clasped behind his back. “Am I not right?” 

“N-no--I-I mean! Yes!” Yuuri blurts, before dipping his head, thumbs pushing together nervously. “P-please, call me Katsuki, though.” Very few people used his given name, and, while hearing it come out of Viktor’s mouth is thrilling, it feels a little improper, and makes his cheeks redder than they ought to be. 

“Katsuki, then.” Viktor nods, gives a few experimental glides across the ice, before pausing, the smile on his face vanished. “You don’t mind, do you? If I practice?”

“N-no.”

“If I’m taking up too much space, I can go--”

“It’s fine!” The force of his own voice surprises Yuuri. Viktor’s staring at him, now, and with just the two of them, he feels like he’s about to spontaneously combust. 

_ I just… screamed… at my idol…. Please, kill me…. _

“Sorry, I’m… I-I just meant, um….”

A sly smile quietly creeps onto Viktor’s face before he’s skating closer, winding around him, backwards and forwards; Yuuri guesses this is what small fish feel like when sharks circle them, and there’s nowhere to go. “If I’m intimidating you, Katsuki, I can leave.” 

For the first time, Yuuri’s eyes rise to meet his, wide where Viktor’s are narrow, watching. 

“I’m used to practicing alone,” Yuuri manages. “But…” He gulps, glances away again. “I don’t mind.”

Viktor lets out a big breath, as if he’s relieved, before skating away. “I’m sorry if I scared you, Katsuki,” laughter on his breath, his face alight with only joy. “I was only teasing!” 

Yuuri allows himself a small smile, before turning his back on the Russian champion, willing the feeling of eyes on his back away as he launches into his routine for the sake of having something productive to do. 

Every so often, though, he’ll allow himself to linger at the wall, to take a drink or catch his breath, eyes following Viktor’s form as he dances, improvising beautiful short step sequences, every move a matter of instinct and feeling, rather than choreography. 

They stay like this for two hours, until a janitor comes in to clean the stands out, and urges them “go home and get some sleep.” 

“You nervous about tomorrow?” Viktor asks as he backs up his skates, glancing up at Yuuri, and, now that they’re much closer and no longer gliding past one another, he can make out the finer details of Viktor’s face. The little strands of hair that have been worked loose. The exhaustive pink that hard work and the cold have brought to the tip of his nose and ears. 

Yuuri doesn’t know what love feels like, not really, but if he had to venture a guess, he would say it felt like the hammering in his heart. 

“A little,” he admits. “Well… more than a little.” 

“Mm, me, too.” 

And, that’s definitely a first. If you were to ask the world to create a list of things that Viktor Nikiforov Absolutely Was, nervous would be last, if it were to even make an appearance at all. 

“Really?”

With a soft sort of sigh, Viktor hefts the case for his skates into his hand. “Yeah. It’s only my third non-Junior event, after all, and the first Grand Prix.” He gives a shrug. “I’ve worked really hard, but… so has everyone else.” 

It’s hard work to blink away the bewilderment in his eyes, but Yuuri manages. “I’m sure you’ll do amazing,” and, yikes, okay, there it is, his Inner Fanboy rearing it’s manic head. It seems to work some kind of magic, though, as Viktor’s smiling again, then  _ laughing _ . 

“Will you be cheering for me?” 

“I….” Yuuri nods, hands stalled where they’re undoing his skates. 

“Okay. Well… then I feel better.” He tucks his head as he winds a scarf around his neck, taking a few steps before waving; “Oh, and I’ll be cheering for you, too, then!” 

It’s hard for Yuuri to sleep that night, but somehow, he manages, and he dreams of a beautiful, laughing face dusted with snow, swirling around him like a winter wind. 

..

Yuuri botches his short program, and, technically-speaking, it wasn’t on par with anyone else’s anyways, so no one is really surprised. 

Viktor shines brightly in silver, his hair tied up in an intricate pattern, a crown made of his own starlight hair. Fittingly enough, he wins silver. 

When he stands on the ice and waits for his music to begin, Yuuri keeps his promise, and cheers from the pit. It breaks Viktor’s concentration for a second, but earns a beautiful smile. 

Yuuri leaves the tournament not with a medal, but with Viktor’s personal cell number--given to him in the hotel lobby before departing, with the promise of friendship swimming in Viktor’s eyes. 

..

They don’t see each other in person for a long time after that. 

Yuuri doesn’t say so, but he’s losing his footing fast. The others training with him have begun to surpass him, and he’s fallen into a slump, but when Viktor texts him, or, when they begin to Skype--thanks to Phichit’s technical know-how--he betrays nothing. 

Instead, talking to Viktor is like a break from all the things that are bogging him down. They talk about nothing in particular--the weather in St. Petersburg, what it’s like working at his family’s onsen. Yuuri introduces him to Vicchan, intentionally putting emphasis on his own accent to make sure Viktor can’t guess where his name comes from (he’s either oblivious, or he’s politely ignoring the traumatizing conversation, and Yuuri’s grateful either way). 

Viktor, much to Yuuri’s amusement, logs on one night after having been permitted to try a few glasses of wine with his dinner, and when he sleepily babbles in Russian, Yuuri can’t keep his laughter from bubbling up behind his hands when they cup over his mouth, and Viktor holds his own face in his hands, cheeks smushing up around his lips as he laments into the webcam: “ _ So cute _ .  _ нечестно _ . ” 

Neither bring it up the next day, or any day after, but Yuuri keeps the memory of Viktor’s voice tucked into his back pocket for rainy days, and, guiltily, one particularly licentious dream that makes it hard to look Viktor in the eye. 

..

Y uuri fidgets anxiously at the airport gate, tugging at the hem of his sweater. Time is ticking by at a painstaking rate; one minute feels like five, five minutes feels like an hour, creeping along, sluggish in its passing. 

He’s been waiting for hours, stuck to the hard orange plastic of this airport waiting room seat, counting the minutes and the seconds between the present and the future, all of it hurtling towards him too fast and too slow all at once. 

Viktor had begged and begged Yakov for a break, just a week off, so he could come visit Yuuri in Detroit. And Yakov, after months of constant pestering, and a long, parental phone call between the coaches, finally allowed Viktor a week. 

“ _ No more, no less; no surprises, Vitya _ ,” he’d lectured, every day leading up to his departure, much to Mila and Georgi’s amusement.

The flight had been delayed by some, so Yuuri had done more waiting than he should have, but--

_ Flight 245 from London: Arriving _

The heavy pulse of Yuuri’s heart is what propels him to his feet, fingers clasping tightly at his sweater as he watches the attendants peel the doors back, people filtering through. They rejoin with loved ones and car services and business people, but Yuuri isn’t bothered by them. He is only, for a moment, scanning each of them, trying to pick out his friend in the crowd, and when he finally spots him, looking a little sleepy and very bundled up, his chest constricts, because who needs to breath when Viktor’s around?

Viktor glances left and right, evidently looking for Yuuri as well, and when he spots him, his mouth opens in a wide smile; Yuuri waves shyly, too shy for all the times they’ve spoken by now, and--he really shouldn’t be surprised when Viktor breaks into a sprint, bag flopping heavy and awkward on his shoulders, arms wide open as he slides into a rough hug, holding Yuuri to his chest, the two of them stumbling a bit with the force of it. 

“Katsuki!” he cheers, drawing back just far enough to smile down at his friend, who stares back through crooked glasses. “You’ve gotten taller!” 

“S-so have you,” Yuuri laughs, finally, adjusting his specs, no longer frozen with all of the things that could go wrong. 

Viktor is as giddy as a child when he quips, “You think so?” before launching into a monologue about the plan ride and his layover in London and all of the food he’s eaten between St. Petersburg and here; no detail is too small. 

They take the train to the dormitories, and the whole way there, Yuuri watches Viktor press his face to the cold glass in amazement, shouting, “Wow!” at every historical tidbit or memory or fun fact Yuuri brings up. 

..

When their laughter begins to settle, Yuuri can suddenly feel the warmth of Viktor beside him that much stronger, seeping through their sleeves and trickling into his skin; the heat travels from where their shoulders meet up into Yuuri’s cheeks, tinging them a pretty pink. 

They’d dropped Viktor’s things off before heading out for dinner, relegating themselves to a warm booth in a sleepy pub to catch up. Falling into speaking had been easy--after all, they’d been doing it for a long time now--but, being together, in the same place was… different. 

Viktor without the screen was dangerous. Whether it was purposeful or not, he noticed Viktor’s knee or foot occasionally brushing his under their table, and it was making Yuuri hyperaware of… well, everything. Of Viktor smiling, of the things he said, of Viktor asking for a bite of Yuuri’s dish, and, subsequently, taking a bite from Yuuri’s fork, not his own. 

And whether or not a crush on the Russian skater had anything to do with it, well, that was besides the point. 

Yuuri peers out of the corner of his eye, catching the hairpin curl of Viktor’s lips, and his tongue wetting the corner as he tries to reign in a too-wide smile, and--Yuuri has to force himself to look away, because stealing glances is the only way to keep himself unstuck. Because Viktor is something the shines, a bright star that sometimes is hard to look at directly without feeling like he’s going to start melting. 

As if sensing it, Viktor nudges Yuuri with his elbow, raising an eyebrow at him. “Kastuki? Your face is sort of… red.” 

“Y-yeah.” Yuuri swallows thickly, a nervous laugh bubbling out of him unchecked. “J-just from laughing so much, I think….”

Viktor hums, letting his head tip back to rest on the wall behind them, eyes searching Yuuri’s for--something, but what it is, the Japanese boy doesn’t know. Viktor’s gaze briefly flickers down, brushing over Yuuri’s lips, but, no, that can’t be right. The thought of Viktor looking at his mouth sends a nervous shiver through Yuuri’s belly, a feeling he quickly ushers away. 

“C-can I see it?” he asks suddenly, looking for a distraction. Yuuri twiddles his fingers, chin tilting down shyly. “Your medal, I-I mean.” 

“Oh!” Scrambling off the bed, Viktor rummages through his bag messily, tossing shirts and pants haphazardly, left and right, until finally he unearths a pendant of gold, strung on a sash of blue and white. “Tada!” He displays it proudly, kneeling and bouncing back on the bed to press the medal into Yuuri’s hands. 

“I’ve never held one before,” Yuuri marvels, feeling the stars in his eyes shine at the image and the weight of the precious metal. And suddenly it occurs to him, that his  _ friend _ has won this,  _ Viktor _ has won it,  _ earned _ it after years of vicious dedication and grueling practices and a god-given talent. 

“Viktor!” he shouts, face turning up to his friend’s, eyes wide. “This is amazing!” and then, in a much quieter voice, “You’re amazing.” 

And, that’s when it happens: Yuuri sees Viktor blush for the very first time. It’s a delicate pink dusted over his cheeks that reaches down into the tip of his nose. He opens his mouth, as if to speak, but closes it a moment later, before it splits into a smile he’s barely able to manage. 

“Yuuri!” he blurts suddenly, flinching an inch closer, blinking owlishly, hands folding tightly over his knees. And then… nothing. They just stare at one another. A long time, too, until Yuuri answers, voice like a whisper; “Yes?”

“Has anyone….” Viktor frowns, his brow creasing slightly as he thinks, and Yuuri almost giggles as how much that expression looks like one of Yakov’s. “Have you ever, ah… kissed anyone before?”

The questions feels like falling on the ice. It knocks the wind out of Yuuri’s lungs, and his brain suddenly feels a little fuzzy. Nervous and fried and full of hot air. 

“I….” And, does he lie, because he wants to impress Viktor, or tell the truth, because Viktor is his friend? He feels a little silly, suddenly, like a child. He’s seventeen, and has never been kissed, and here’s his one-time idol, his friend (, his crush), who surely has been, asking him, watching him, curious. 

He forces himself to look up at Viktor, because sometimes he needs a little push, and the look in his waiting eyes is gushing support, or, at the very least, the promise not to pick on him. 

Slowly, Yuuri shakes his head. “No.”

Viktor exhales, albeit a bit unsteadily, his hand resting over his heart. “Okay, me neither,” all of it coming out on one long breath, and an uneven laugh. 

The answer is a bit shocking, although, Yuuri thinks, maybe it shouldn’t be. After all, what spare time would Viktor have, freshly eighteen and making it his purpose to take the skating world by storm? Between his practices and championships and gold medals, what time is there for young love? 

Just as he feels himself relax, Yuuri’s world erupts into breathless fire once more. 

“I kind of wanted to kiss you. Just now.” 

Nobody laughs. Neither of them move much. Yuuri just stares again, long and wide-- _ this _ he could surely win a gold medal in--and Viktor stares back, body and muscles tight, straining in anticipation for Yuuri’s answer. Perhaps he’s imagining the nervousness in Viktor’s eyes, and for a moment, he remembers the first time he spoke to Viktor, when he admitted the night before a tournament that he was nervous. 

He remembers that Viktor is only human.

“Maybe….” Yuuri swallows hard, not daring to look his friend in the eye when he speaks. “Maybe I wanted to, too.”

..

When Viktor kisses him, it’s slow and nervous and nothing like the way he skates. 

His lips are soft and slightly cracked, souvenirs from the frigid temperatures in St. Petersburg. He’s holding his breath, and his lashes flutter anxiously on his cheeks. One hand rests on the wall behind Yuuri to steady himself, and the other rests on Yuuri’s shoulder, fingers flexing nervously as they inch closer. 

The first time their lips brush against each other’s, it feels like an accident, but it’s enough of a touch to make the moment feel real to Yuuri, to make him realize,  _ This is really happening _ . 

Afraid fingers quiver at Viktor’s hip, unsure if they’re wanted there, before settling. Yuuri’s eyes are squeezed shut, so he can only feel it when Viktor parts his lips ever so slightly, just enough to slot his lips neatly against Yuuri’s, and--oh, he’s suddenly feeling dizzy.

When they separate, it’s by a hair’s breadth, and the puff of warm air that’s blown by Viktor’s soft laugh sends a chill up the back of Yuuri’s neck. “V-vitya….” 

“Yuuri….” And, that, too, rattles him, after months of being called Katsuki as per his own request. “I can call you  _ Yuuri _ now, right?”

“Um--”

“I did research. It’s normal for--for people who are close to call each other by their given name, yes? S-so, I thought maybe….” He trails off, looking incredibly red, like he wants to abort the idea midway into the sentence, but, it’s definitely too late. 

“Say it again? Please?” Yuuri asks, voice cracking nervously. 

“ _ Yuuri _ .” He never thought his own name could be intoxicating, and yet, here he is, made lightheaded and gelatinous by the way it rolls around in Viktor’s mouth, and how his voice dips when he says it, and the way his lips brush against his own when he says it. 

“You can say it,” he breaths back. “I-if you want to.”

“Well... what do  _ you _ want?” 

His mouth seems to know before his head does; “I want to kiss you again.” 

A surprised laugh explodes out of Viktor, followed by an apology. “I’m sorry, Yuuri, I’m sorry,” he chuckles, hands grasping either side of Yuuri’s face desperately. “I’m sorry that was just--so, so cute, um--.” 

He adjusts the way he’s perched over Yuuri, less afraid like he’s going to crush him now, and he settles himself on his thighs, glancing down with an uncharacteristically nervous smile. “Is this okay?”

And all Yuuri can manage is a quiet “mm-hm,” because Viktor is touching him, and smiling at him, and tilting his head in for another kiss, and it just feels good. To have someone to hold onto. To be so close to something he finds so perfect. 

..

“ _ What _ ?” Yuuri snaps, head raising from where it rests in his hands. 

Viktor looks a little stunned, but says nothing, his hand stopped halfway from landing on Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri sighs, shaking his head before holding it tight in his hands again, looking for something to ground him. 

They’re twenty-one and twenty now, and Yuuri, after years of rigorous training, and a few breakdowns, and a lot of lamenting living and training away from his boyfriend, has finally made it to the final stage of the Grand Prix. 

There are few times Yuuri has been more anxious than he is now. He can’t remember any of them now, though. His head is a frenzy of “not good enoughs” and vignettes of all the things that could go wrong. 

Viktor moves from his side, crouching before where Yuuri sits on the bench and peeling one hand from where it’s bolted to his face, running his thumb over the back soothingly. “However you chose to skate, I’m sure it’ll be perfect,” he murmurs, before kissing his knuckle. “When you skate--” another kiss, another knuckle, “--it’s like your body is creating music.” Another, to his middle finger. “Whatever you do, I’ll be proud of you.” 

He peeks up at him, then, with a little bit of mischief in his face. “And, if you win gold….” He presses a kiss to the knuckle of his ring finger, before licking a stripe up to the to the tip. 

Yuuri feels his stomach flip, as if he were dropped from the top of a skyscraper. “Vi--!  _ Viktor _ !” he hisses, pulling his hand away, looking back and forth to be sure no one else has seen.

Viktor winks up at him, pointed finger pressed to his lips impishly. “Just a little extra incentive.” 

..

When Yuuri stands at the threshold of the rink, waiting for his name to be called, Viktor presses a gloved hand to the small of his back, to reassure, and to get his attention. 

“If you get nervous, just remember that I’m here.” 

Yuuri casts a look over his shoulder, glancing up to where Viktor rests his head on his shoulder. 

“When you’re out there, just… kiss your wrist, and I’ll know everything’s okay.” 

“Ladies and gentleman, please welcome to the ice, Japan’s Yuuri Katsuki!” 

The applause is deafening, but not so much so that he can’t hear Viktor whisper, “Go,” against his ear. He glides onto the ice smoothly, though he can feel the sweat prickling in his palms. He shakes them out, takes a long deep breath, and shut his eyes. 

When he opens them, he can see the blurred image of his boyfriend waiting at the wall. 

In a moment of bravery, forgetting the cameras and the television and the judges and his face amplified on the big screen, he presses his lips to his wrist, before letting his hand reach out towards his love. 

The music begins.

He nearly misses his cue, the instrumentals lost to the cheering of the crowd. 

..

This becomes a habit between the two of them. 

Social media and the skating world’s inherent need to gossip made the first wrist-kiss Yuuri into a monumental event, everyone--sports news and tabloids and friends, aside from a chosen few--aching to know who it was meant for. 

He never says outright, only that there  _ is _ someone it’s meant for. After all, Yuuri and Viktor have kept themselves a secret for quite some time--not out of fear or embarrassment, but rather, for their careers, promising one another to focus. But, when Viktor takes to the ice after a very minor injury, he starts his piece by turning to the camera, knowing Yuuri is watching, and mimics the kiss.

..

They first time they make love, Viktor is more nervous than Yuuri. 

They’ve both been apart, nineteen and eighteen years old, too caught up in their usual training and competition circuits to be able to visit one another. Without his boyfriend--yes, it became official, after Phichit finds out (inevitable) and interrogates the two of them, forcing them to work out,  _ yes _ , they are dating, so  _ yes _ , they might as well call each other their “boyfriend”--around to kiss and wrap his arms around, Yuuri’s been finding himself more… distracted lately. 

And, during one Skype call, when Viktor has the audacity to answer in boxers and a baggy nightshirt, hair still a mess from sleeping, Yuuri breaches the topic. 

When Yuuri visits St. Petersburg during the first week of the off-season, it takes less than an hour for Viktor to bring it up, and less than three for them to end up in bed together, bare before one another for the first time. 

..

Viktor brushes his fingers down Yuuri’s abdomen, fingers shaking, and--he pauses. Again. 

“You’ll let me know if something doesn’t… doesn’t feel right?” he asks for the tenth time. 

“Of course,” Yuuri breaths, gazing up at his boyfriend with more love than he can help. He reaches upwards, brushing a long lock of hair out of Viktor’s face. “Just….” He breaths out, shaky, trying to keep his composure as he offers a smile. “Just, um… please… touch me o-or something.” 

“R-right.” 

Viktor leans down for a kiss, maybe to gain a little confidence, but even that he can barely focus on, his mind pulling a million different directions, towards a million different ideas. 

“Do you want to wait?” Yuuri asks, finally, after Viktor’s trembled his way from kissing his lips down to kissing his clavicle. “I don’t mind it, really. Just getting to be with you is enough--more than enough--”

“ _ No _ , I want to, I just….” He shakes his head, sighing. “I’m sorry, this was supposed to be… this was supposed to be good for you, I just--” 

Viktor, Yuuri knows, is not accustomed to screwing up. He’s got a perfect track record when it comes to skating. He’s adored by all. He’s known for his kindness and his grace and strength and instinctive perfection. He isn’t used to doubting the moves that he makes.

Yuuri, however, is no stranger to self-doubt. 

“Viktor,” he says, voice steadier than he means it to be, though he isn’t complaining. Viktor blinks down at him, trying not to look upset, but the little pout in his lips gives him up. Yuuri reaches up to capture it with his own, nipping at the plush of his lip before instructing, “Lay down.”

Viktor falls down into his pillows, hair fanning out around him, and it’s disturbingly angelic; coaching himself not to think about religion, or anything other than this moment, Yuuri traces his fingers over Viktor’s hand, wrapping them down around his wrist; he guides it up, pressing his lips over the little pulse point beating under the skin. 

“Do you still want to do this?” Yuuri asks, never taking his lips off of Viktor’s wrist. “We don’t have to. I’ll wait if that’s what you want.”

Viktor shakes his head, breathing through the deep blush Yuuri’s kiss has brought to his face, his chest. “I want you,” he murmurs. 

Yuuri nods, licks his lips. He supposed he hadn’t planned anything out exactly, but… if he’s being perfectly honest, he’s thought about this scenario more times than he cares to admit. His fingers link with his boyfriend’s as he dips down, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to his chest, his stomach, down in a neat little trail. He himself is shaking, but when he snakes his tongue out over Viktor’s pelvic bone, the anticipatory whine gives him the confidence to keep going, licking lower and lower. 

..

They don’t argue often. 

Whenever they do, apologies quickly follow, or they move on from little arguments after giving one another space to cool off. They’re honest when they’re wrong. Yuuri makes amends when his anxiety pushes Viktor away. Viktor’s occasional obliviousness or dismissiveness is usually soothed after a few tears and some yelling. 

No quarrel lasts a long time.

.. 

This time is different. 

Lately, Yuuri feels like he’s been buckling again, under the pressure he, and consequently, Viktor, have been building higher and heavier on his shoulders. The reporters keep asking about legacy, about destroying his husband’s records, about topplings his own. What will he do to surprise people? How will he keep from stagnating? 

How much can he keep doing, keep creating, before there’s nothing left?

Viktor’s been under a lot of pressure, as well. Coaching and helping Yakov, and planning a wedding around careers, and getting involved in being part of a staff in tournament circuits now that he’s retired, takes up a lot of his time. When he comes home, Yuuri is often fast asleep, the bedside light kept on for Viktor’s arrival. 

They begin to miss things. Little anniversaries that, up until now, mattered a lot. The date of their first kiss, their first date, their first time. Their engagement. These things take back seats to modern priorities.

It’s something little--undone dishes that Yuuri comes home to, that slip from his soapy fingers and shatter--that sets them off, a wick to a candle that can’t stop burning, burning, burning too brightly. 

They say nasty things, all of it spilling out by malicious accident or in defense of something else, none of it meant, but none of it apologized for. 

“I can’t keep living like this; you’re  _ never home _ !” and “When I  _ am _ home, you’re like this! Cranky or mad at me for-- _ something _ !” 

The night ends with Viktor sleeping elsewhere, let into Georgi’s apartment, because he knows about heartbreak. Mila and Yuri get the text from Georgi, and both come over, and though Yuri complains about being woken up by romantic drama so late in the night, Viktor tears up at their presence. 

Mila pets his hair as he falls asleep after a few cups of tea and plenty of shots. Yuri rises with a sigh, shrugging his jacket onto his shoulders as he makes for the door at four in the morning, though in this winter, the sun won’t be up for several hours still. 

“You’re going home?” Viktor asks, slurred through the excess of tears he’s expelled, and alcohol he’s consumed. 

“No,” Yuri huffs, lacing up his shoes. “I’m too awake for that.” He frowns (perpetually) at the idiot adults he’s come to call his family. “I don’t care about you and your shitty boyfriend….  _ But _ , dealing with you all sulky is a thousand times more annoying than dealing with you when you’re all lovesick and happy, so… I’m going to talk to Katsuki.” 

“He’s not gonna forgive me.” Already, Viktor’s eyes are glassing over again, a new wave of sobbing ebbing nearer, and Yuri groans, loud and irritated. 

“Whatever. I’m just gonna talk to him. Just… shut up and go to bed already.” 

..

Yuri isn’t surprised to find that Yuuri is also awake at this hour. He answers the door dressed in his famous Lazy Pants, with half a bottle of wine dredged in his hand. 

“You look like shit,” Yuri huffs at the sight of him, earning back a teary frown and a shrug. 

“Have you seen Viktor?” 

“Yeah. He’s holed up at Georgi’s, crying all over everything.” There’s a pregnant pause before the blonde sighs--truly, he’s fed up with the two of them, really--and elbows his way into Yuuri and Viktor’s apartment, taking hold of the wine as he goes. “So, I came to see how you were doing.”

Shutting the door, Yuuri lets fly a little sniffle, touched by the effort Yuri will pretend he isn’t expending. “You did?”

“Yeah. I mean. Viktor has me and the others, Georgi, and I guess even Lilia.” He unscrew the cap and takes a long sip before handing it back. “All of your family’s back in Japan. Phichit’s in America.” A painful reminder. “Viktor’s useless, so.”  _ I’m the family you have right now _ .

He won’t say it, he would  _ never _ say it, but he doesn’t need to, not in so many words. His showing up at all is evidence enough. 

With a burdened sigh, little Yuri flops back onto the sofa, kicking off his shoes like this house is his own. “So, tell me what’s going on. And, try not to cry too much, you’re a really ugly crier, y’know.”

Yuuri lets out a little laugh, falling to sit on the floor. “Yeah, I know.”

..

They finish at six; Yuuri is much quicker and more concise than Viktor had been.

When Yuri leaves, he pretends not to flush a little darker when he tells Yuuri it’s fine to call him--but not too much--if he needs to “talk...or drink, or whatever.” 

“You gonna forgive him?” 

Yuuri tilts his head, thinks, though his mind is exhausted and foggy. “Maybe. I don’t know. We said… some pretty horrible things. Both of us.”

“Think he’ll forgive you?”

“...I don’t know if he should.”

..

Viktor wakes up with his body contorted into strange, painful positions on Georgi’s sofa, tangled in a blanket with his text tone ringing from the floor.

His heart beats as hard as his head. Part of him prays for it to be Yuuri. After all, something is better than nothing.

Instead, it’s a text from Yuri.

“ _ The pig needs some space. Buy him flowers or something next time you see him. You were both assholes. Say you’re sorry. _ ”

..

The space lasts two days. After that, they agree to meet for coffee, and Viktor brings flowers. Yuuri seems touched, but doesn’t melt the way Viktor hoped he would. 

He supposes it’s a good thing. Yuuri, when he was younger and less sure of his self-worth, would have forgiven quicker, for fear of losing Viktor. Now, he knows he’s worth more than the things he’d been called in the heat of their anger. 

“Can… I see you again?” Viktor asks tentatively, the two of them at the cross street where they part ways. 

Yuuri looks down at the flowers and cellophane in his arm. “Yes.” 

Viktor smiles.

“Yes,  _ but _ … not until Worlds. I need to focus. And… you have things you need to focus on, too, so… it feels like a bad idea. To try and fix everything when… neither of us have the time.” 

Viktor understands. He has the urge to take Yuuri’s wrist and kiss it and beg for him to forgive him, but it wouldn’t be fair. Especially when Yuuri is right, and neither has the time to dedicate. 

Viktor nods, forcing a smile. “At Worlds, then.”

..

Yuuri takes a long breath.

The music begins. 

He does not kiss his wrist. 

Everything is not fine.

..

He skates beautifully. The music swells, and he can feel it in his bones, in his chest, in his feet. The ice rises up to meet him when he jumps, each land sturdy and with precise rotations. 

The piano is plunging and deep. He can hear his breathing,  _ knows _ he’s breathing, and yet his chest still aches, and the only thing he can pay attention to is this. The movement, fluid and elegant and exaggerated; the story of a broken heart. 

He choreographed it within the two weeks he and Viktor spent apart, especially for this performance, especially for Viktor. 

Once, a young blonde came to him in the middle of the night. He listened to him cry through his heartache, stole some of his wine, and told him, stern and serious: “ _ If you don’t have any inspiration left, you’re as good as dead _ .” 

He’d asked what it had meant, but Yuri had just told him to figure it out for himself.

This was his new inspiration.

..

_ This piece is a love letter _ , he tells himself.  _ This piece is an apology, and it’s forgiveness. It’s what hurt me. It’s what I love about you. So pay close attention _ .

..

When the piece ends, he’s heaving for a good breath, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying.

The tears stream freely down Yuuri’s cheeks, not because he did poorly--quite the opposite--but because he can’t help himself. Because he’s staring at the only person that matters, through thick, hot tears and blurry vision, knowing that he’s staring right back.

He falls out of his finishing pose.

He brings his wrist to his lips and kisses the skin there.

On the big screen, in the corner of his eye, he can see Viktor repeat the motion, and it makes him cry a little harder. 

..

They skip the banquet that occurs after, opting to crash into Yuuri’s hotel room, a tangle of tears and lips and apologies. 

“I haven’t… totally forgiven you,” Yuuri sniffles, hands smoothing over Viktor’s dress shirt. “Not yet. But… I want to. I will.”

Viktor nods, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you tonight.” He’s as shaky as he was the first time they held each other. “I love you… I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.” Yuuri huffs. He’s reluctant to pull away from his spot curled up at Viktor’s side, but he does, only to fish through the bedside drawer, pulling out his glasses case, and from that, his engagement ring. 

“I missed this,” holding it up to examine it in the dim light. “I missed you.”

“I never took mine off,” Viktor hums, holding his arm out for Yuuri to return.

Yuuri rolls his eyes, but snuggles closer still. “...Do you forgive me?”

“Not fully.” 

“Good. You shouldn’t.”

“But….” He winks at his fiance, echoing his words back at him. “I want to. And, I will.” 

Yuuri smiles a small smile, and it keeps until they’ve both fallen asleep, tangled together, till the late winter dawn.

..

Everything is not okay.

But, it will be.

Kiss your wrist, it will be. 

 


End file.
